He’s breaking her, piece by piece, and she’s letting him.
He strides over to the TV and clicks it off. “Why do you even bother staying?” he spits. “What’s the point ofyou?”
The words hit like a slap, and I find myself gripping the edge of my desk so hard my knuckles turn white.
But then I see it—that flicker of fire in her eyes. She chooses not to respond, but I saw what I saw, and it gives me hope.
Her wrist twitches, almost imperceptibly, as if she’s considering using it for something other than chopping up the ingredients for her snack.
For a moment, he falters, his bravado crumbling under her gaze. But the moment passes quickly, and he retreats into the other room, muttering under his breath.
Margaux exhales sharply, her hand trembling as she sets the knife down.
She doesn’t cry.
She doesn’t scream.
She just stands there, staring at the spot where he had stood moments before.
I want to reach through the screen, to pull her out of this nightmare and into safety.
But all I can do is watch.
The days blur together, each one a new chapter in Timmy’s grief spiral. His sadness over Darren’s death becomes an excuse for every outburst, every cruel word, every moment of volatility.
And Margaux—poor, stubborn Margaux—absorbs it all.
She listens to his stories about Darren, lets him cry on her shoulder, and tries to navigate his unpredictable moods.
But she’s not okay.
She’s wasting away, her body weak from anxiety and lack of nourishment. I see her try to eat, only to push the plate awaymoments later. I see her clutching her stomach, her face pale, her breaths shallow.
She’s drowning—disappearing—and I can’t pull her out.
One evening, I watch as she sits on the bed, staring blankly at the TV.
Timmy is pacing in the kitchen, ranting about Darren’s upcoming memorial. His voice rises and falls, alternating between anger and despair. “Darren was the best guy I ever knew,” he says for the hundredth time, his tone reverent and bitter all at once.
Margaux doesn’t respond. She’s too tired, too drained. Instead, she stares straight ahead, her expression blank, no doubt tired of hearing about Saint Darren the Benevolent.
The same Darren that, only months before, Timmy had described as a bad friend, a user, and an abuser, among other things. Now, he’s being romanticized, placed on a pedestal, his formerly acknowledged flaws now ignored, denied.
I’d be exhausted, too.
Timmy slams a cupboard door, then another. “Why don’t you care?” he demands, his voice both sharp and accusing.
She finally looks at him, her eyes hollow. “I do care, Timmy. I just… I can’t do this anymore.”
Her words hang in the air, a fragile truth that he swats away with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Whatever,” he mutters. “I’m going to bed in the back room.”
As he disappears into the other room, Margaux lets out a shaky breath. She pulls out her phone and types something. A message to Alice, most likely.
A cry for help she won’t allow herself to fully commit to.
Watching all of this unfold, I feel a mix of rage and helplessness. Margaux was so close to leaving, to reclaiming her life.
But now, Darren’s death has become the perfect excuse for Timmy to tighten his grip on her. And she—ever the empath—feels obligated to stay.